He was tall, blond, muscular, and far more handsome than the first dozen or so princes who had come through the court seeking to win the Princess’s hand.
He also looked very surprised when the King tried to hand him a sword.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m actually quite useless with a sword.”
The King blinked.
The young man smiled and lifted one hand, conjured a ball of light on his palm. “I’m a sorcerer, not a warrior. My prince, however, is a fine swordsman.”
The prince was a few inches taller than the sorcerer, whipcord thin, and pale, dark-haired. He had lovely blue eyes, but his cheekbones and mouth were distressingly pretty, and it looked as though the armor he was wearing had been made for a twelve-year-old squire. He did, however, accept the sword with easy grace, as one used to wielding a weapon, and he bowed.
“Well, Prince, er, Merlin, I’m sure my daughter is looking forward to your prowess in single combat. Isn’t that right, Guinevere?” The King cast his daughter a look.
She wrenched her gaze away from the sorcerer and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. Good luck, Prince Merlin.”
He bowed and kissed her hand, and when he smiled, she felt something in her chest hitch. “Thank you, my princess,” he said, and he straightened up, strode into the ring where the kingdom’s finest warrior was waiting.
“Is he good?” Guinevere asked the sorcerer.
“He’s better than he looks,” the sorcerer said. He smiled and added, “My name’s Arthur, by the way.”
(260 words)
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